A Waltz in A Minor
by VioletWylde
Summary: <html><head></head>"Baker Street, behind closed curtains." That's what John had said. "Mrs Hudson came in one time. Don't know how those rumors started!" He had joked, a bit callous. But what really happened the night Sherlock taught John to waltz? And how differently could it have gone if Mrs. Hudson hadn't interrupted? M/M, top!lock, infidelity.</html>
1. Revelation in a Box Step

**A/N: A bit of a departure for me, but I hope you enjoy my small addition to the Sherlock fandom. This story has a bit of an odd format. The first chapter is what I would consider canon compliant and the following chapter will basically be an alternate ending (the fangirl version).**

**Warnings: Confusion, angst and UST...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.**

**Beta'd by: **A thousand thanks to madnina for being an amazing beta. She helped me to take this story to places I could only imagine. This being my first foray into the Sherlock fandom, her support allowed me to move past my insecurities and explore these characters and their motivations.****

* * *

><p>221B felt naked, with the rug rolled up and the floorboards exposed. The chairs were pushed back into the corners of the room, the coffee table slid tightly against the couch. It wasn't much space, but it would do.<p>

Sherlock turned to the mirror above the fireplace and fussed with the collar of his shirt, opening the fabric and revealing the hollow of his throat. His gaze flickered assessingly over his reflection, his thoughts vacillating between self-assurance and anxious doubt. He wasn't sure about this shirt; he considered changing it one more time as he brushed his hand down the front. It was a deep sapphire—a richer, more vibrant color than he typically wore, and the fine silk fit him like a second skin. Maybe the aubergine shirt would have been better—more casual, less auspicious.

_Get ahold of yourself, Holmes_, Sherlock thought with an irritated huff. He closed his eyes, shutting himself away from distant din of early evening traffic and the gentle patter of rain against the windows. He'd just managed two calming breaths before he heard the front door open and close, followed by a familiar tread climbing the steps. As John crossed the threshold to the sitting room, Sherlock fell into a graceful crouch and began rummaging through a low shelf on the bookcase just right of the hearth.

"Sorry I'm late," John said, shaking out his jacket. "Mary had—what's all this?"

John pulled off his coat and hung it without a thought, muscle memory taking him through the motions. He surveyed the odd configuration of furniture and peered into the kitchen to see if there were any signs of experimentation that could provide a clue. The precarious arrangement of glassware hinted at nothing, save for the ever-present risk of cross contamination between unidentifiable biohazards and tea. He turned around as Sherlock rose to his feet.

"Sherlock?"

"You mentioned last week that you were nervous about the reception," Sherlock said as he turned. He made a quick assessment of John, cataloging his recent hair cut, rough day at the surgery, and new razor blade. There was the finest impression of a crease in his plaid shirt and a crispness to his burgundy cardigan that suggested he hadn't been wearing it all day. He'd changed before coming over. The ghost of a smile tilted Sherlock's lips.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, shifting his weight ever so subtly to the right.

"You said you don't know how to dance," Sherlock said, by way of explanation. "Well, I do."

John finally noticed the faded record album in Sherlock's hands. "I didn't—no. Thanks, but I'll be alright."

"Problem?"

"No, no problem," John answered, ambivalence obvious in the unconscious clench of his hand. "I just thought... Haven't you got a case on?"

"Nope. No case," Sherlock answered and slipped the the record from its sleeve. He ignored the mildly befuddled look still pinching John's features as he turned to the hi-fi and lifted the cover to the record player.

"If you're serious, I think I'm going to need a drink," John rejoined.

"Help yourself," Sherlock answered without a backward glance.

Sherlock listened to the sounds of John rummaging through the cabinets, searching for a clean glass. Next came the gentle clink of bottles as John sifted through Sherlock's meagre alcohol collection. He wouldn't open the pinot, not just for himself, and the Everclear was meant more as a substitute for rubbing alcohol than human consumption. That left the half-empty bottle of scotch, the one that hadn't been touched since John had last poured from it. Sherlock carefully laid the record on the turntable and flipped the switch. The speakers came to life with a soft crackle and the record began to spin. Sherlock waited until he heard John put down his glass—the scotch, he'd correctly deduced—before he took the arm out of its cradle. He hesitated for another moment before gently placing the stylus on the edge of the spinning vinyl. A few seconds of thick silence preceded gentle, coaxing notes of a solo piano. It was a haunting, indolent melody; unique among Chopin's repertoire.

Sherlock turned on his heel and regarded John with a precisely calculated aloofness. Emotional distance was paramount, as physical proximity would be compromised by necessity. Two long strides brought him to the center of the room, it took John five to meet him.

"What are you going to teach me?" John asked, low and uncertain.

"The waltz," Sherlock answered, succinctly. He lifted his chin, as if addressing the entire room rather than the man in front of him. "I thought I'd lead first, show you the steps, then we'd switch."

"Ah," John answered, loquacious as ever. He licked his lips. "Right, then."

Sherlock stepped into John's personal space, invading John in a way that he hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing in far too long. "The man will extend his left hand and place his right between the woman's shoulder blade and waist, depending on familiarity," he said and positioned his hands thusly.

The palm of his right hand pressed firmly just under John's shoulder blade, the angle of his thumb and index finger nesting comfortably along the edge of his scapula. Immediately, Sherlock noticed the heat of John's body—insulated in the layers of his shirts. He could feel the lines of strong, compact muscles as they stretched across his back. His next thought was that of a singular obsession—John's scar—tantalizingly close. He'd never touched it before, though he had had the good fortune of seeing it on a handful of occasions. _What would happen if I just…_ and Sherlock's fingers twitched in anticipation of that thought. But no. He was sure that would be crossing some sort of line. So he pressed his fingers firmly into the slightly tensed trapezius and shut the door on that idea.

"The woman will put her right hand in his left, and place her left on his shoulder."

"Right," John whispered and placed his hands as instructed. His touch felt solid and warm and far, far too human.

Sherlock steadied his own grip and tightened his body in a firm and confident frame. "Now, you will mirror my movement. At its most basic, the waltz is a three-step dance. I'll step forward with my left, you step back with your right."

Sherlock moved, his rigid arms guiding John backward. John stared down at his feet as he stepped back and Sherlock looked straight ahead, admiring the texture of John's dishwater blond hair and the sporadic strands of grey that added depth and character. "Next," Sherlock said, "I will bring my right foot forward and slightly beyond shoulder width. You will step back and slightly to the left."

Again Sherlock moved, maintaining a careful balance of grace and control; John was stiff and robotic as he followed. "Lastly you will bring your feet back together," Sherlock instructed as he took John through the final step. "Good," he said with a smile. "Again."

They repeated the steps to the simple _1-2-3, 1-2-3_ of the music, until they reached the edge of the room. There were, of course, missteps along the way, followed by hushed apologies as John focused all his attention on the pattern of his feet. When they ran out of space, Sherlock turned them around and they began again.

With repetition came confidence. Eventually, John relaxed, his movement becoming progressively more fluid. The grip on Sherlock's shoulder soften into something that felt curiously similar to a caress as John's hand slid down to cup the curve of his deltoid. Then came the feathery brush of fingers as John's right hand curled ever so slightly around his left.

"This music is a little sad, Sherlock," John said as he brought his feet together. They had once again crossed the room.

Sherlock turned them with an absent hum. "It's in a minor key, yes," he answered and stepped forward.

When he next bought his feet together, Sherlock stopped. The melancholy music played on, but their movement had ceased. John looked up—cheeks tinged pink and a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth—and Sherlock had to fight to suppress a reaction. But he wasn't quite quick enough to hide the twitch of his fingers or the stutter of his inhale.

Looking over John's shoulder, he managed a steady, "Alright. Now we're going to add a reverse. This will create a box step."

"Okay," John said with a nod and looked back down at his feet.

"Right," Sherlock said and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if imploring some deity for strength. "Just as before. One, two, three," he said and brought John through the motions. "Now, bring your left foot forward. Yes. Right forward and wide. Now together. Good. _One_, two, three, _four_, five, six. _One_, two, three, _four_, five, six."

The sound of his own voice, guiding them to the steady meter, lulled Sherlock. He wasn't even aware of his relaxed stance, let alone the way his body drifted closer, and his hand slid down John's back until it rested just below his twelfth rib.

"_One_, two, three, _four_, five, six. Good, John." His eyes weren't even open any more. He simply felt the music, let the fluttering arpeggios and sudden modulations wash through him. There were only a few bars left before the next movement and he allowed himself those last dozen seconds to savor the gentle brush of John's thumb across his shoulder, the warmth and tenderness of the touch amplified by the soft silk of his shirt.

The music faded and Sherlock's feet came together just as the final note slowly died. He pulled himself from John's grip and made an about-face, finding refuge in the task of returning the stylus to the beginning of the record.

Teaching John to dance was proving to be far more challenging than he had anticipated. And sadly, he was forced to conclude, it wasn't because of John's atrocious skills—_he _was actually doing quite well. It was Sherlock who was finding himself with two left feet, figuratively speaking. He was faltering. Somewhere between the coolness he projected and the stony wall of his heart, there was a fissure, and it was growing deeper and wider with every step they took. _Things _were seeping out from this crevice, long repressed and dangerous _things_. Emotions stronger than Sherlock knew how to handle, feelings more beguiling and unwieldy than they had any right to be.

His heart was beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs and he felt unnaturally hot. He looked up from the hi-fi, into the mirror, to find a light dusting of pink sitting high on his cheeks. His lips pursed in frustrated distaste. He looked behind his own, embarrassingly transparent visage, to see the reflection of John, slowly dancing with an invisible partner. He was making a valiant effort not to look at his feet. Sherlock's lips quirked with a smile as he watched John softly mouth the words 'one, two, three, four, five, six'. Sherlock caught sight of his own ridiculous grin and quickly schooled his expression.

John halted mid-step when Sherlock approached and his eyes narrowed fractionally. There must have been some sort of trick of lighting in the room, because it looked suspiciously like the great Sherlock Holmes was blushing. John managed to suppress a smug grin.

"This time, you will lead," Sherlock said, placing his left hand on John's shoulder and offering his right. "The steps are the same, just start with your left foot forward," he instructed as John placed his hand unhesitatingly at Sherlock's waist.

John waited until a one-count, then stepped forward with his left foot, then his right, and finally brought the two together. "Good, John," Sherlock praised. "Use your body to tell me what to do."

John stumbled, stepped right instead of left and planted his heel on Sherlock's toes. He crashed into Sherlock's chest and quickly pushed back, nearly breaking his frame. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock asked, brows knit in confusion.

John looked equally incredulous. "You can't say—" he stopped abruptly and looked down with a series of quick blinks. "Nevermind. Let's start again."

With a firm grip on Sherlock's waist and hand, John led them once again. He had a few more missteps, especially when transitioning between beats four and five. But he was slowly improving. John's internal clock kept the time well enough and, once he found the rhythm, John accepted that the act of dancing, in and of itself, wasn't so bad. Dancing with Sherlock, now that was an entirely different animal.

John had no preconceived notions about what it would be like to dance with this man. If anything, he'd have assumed dancing would be like any of Sherlock's other undertakings—either utter perfection or complete chaos; and when Sherlock had been leading it was precision at its finest. But with John in control, Sherlock was unquestionably pliant, allowing himself to be handled, moved, directed about the room without the slightest hint of protest. The ease with which he allowed himself to be led was unsettling.

John wasn't used to having any kind of command over Sherlock. The man was stubborn beyond compare and ingeniously manipulative, if John ever had any sense of power over him, it was simply because Sherlock created that illusion. But that was clearly not the case tonight. Right now, it was obvious that Sherlock was losing control not only to John, but to his body.

John could feel the conflict in the way Sherlock's fingers twitched restlessly against his shoulder, as if they wanted to relax and smooth over the fabric of his cardigan but were being sternly denied. He heard the struggle in Sherlock's breathing, as though he was consciously monitoring his own respiration. What could it mean if Sherlock Holmes couldn't trust his own body not to betray him?

John looked down to his feet to hide the slow crawl of a smile on his lips. _He _could cause Sherlock to lose control. _He _could get this unapologetic autocrat to willingly hand it over. How many people on Earth could say that?

As they moved across the room, John found himself concentrating less and less on his movement. He opened his senses to the serenade of lonely notes filling the room and lingering in the air, and the heat of Sherlock's body under his hand. The fabric of Sherlock's shirt was soft and supple, and John was finding it difficult to resist rubbing his thumb in small circles.

It was risky, he knew; this kind of physical intimacy. If Sherlock didn't outright condemn him for the action, there was always a chance John wouldn't be able to stop himself. Though that was more a gamble of fantasy than reality; and even then, that wasn't a fantasy he'd had much of late. Too busy with wedding planning and writing prescriptions to give much thought to his old, buried desires. Still, as his body leaned closer and his hand inched lower, John couldn't deny the sudden impulse to give in.

John looked up from his feet, faltering once but quickly regaining his steps. A glance to Sherlock's face showed him to be equally lost in the moment. His eyes were closed, his lips parted just enough to allow slow, steady breaths to pass. Struck by how soft Sherlock looked, how vulnerable and human he appeared, John was broadsided by a very dangerous idea.

For years, John had labored under the impression that he was alone in the battle to understand the confusing emotions that seemed to be part and parcel of any kind of relationship with Sherlock. _But, what if I'm not alone?_ The thought asserted itself in John's mind just as his fingertips slipped into the shallow valley of Sherlock's spine. He chanced a longer look at Sherlock's face, at the fan of dark lashes laying against his impossible cheekbones and the faint blush that had yet to recede. '_He doesn't feel things that way'_, the mantra John had told himself for so long, suddenly seemed glaringly wrong.

John sorted through his memories, pulling out those long looks and hanging silences and examined them with a fresh perspective, one in which Sherlock was also struggling to understand what it all meant. Had he just been blind or was he actually the idiot that Sherlock constantly accused him of being? Because looking back it seemed so _obvious_.

"You're doing well, John," Sherlock said, the gentle rumble of his words shocking John out of his ruminations. He felt the vibration of Sherlock's voice in his chest and sensed the electric tension of their bodies. The combination was reminiscent of summer storms. And the unrelenting power of nature seemed to apply just as well in 221B as it did over the expanse of London.

John focused his gaze on Sherlock's throat. He stared determinedly at the freckles splashed along the cords of muscle and saw the slight jump of Sherlock's carotid artery just under the skin, evidence of an elevated heart rate.

Before either of them realized it, the music dwindled and ceased. John brought his feet together one last time, but he didn't pull away.

"John," Sherlock said and John watched, utterly enthralled, as his adam's apple bobbed. Reluctantly he pulled his gaze up.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath at the intensity he found in John's expression. It was the kind of frenzy he only saw after a chase, once the threat of imminent death had dwindled but the flood of adrenaline still remained. "Yes," John said, as if it were the answer to a question that hadn't been asked.

"I need to reset the music."

"Right," John said and pulled his hands away. Sherlock could feel his hesitation—how his hands lingered and his eyes narrowed they way they always did when he was unsure.

Slowly, Sherlock turned away, sliding John a questioning glance. As he tugged the arm up and back to the edge of the record, it occurred to Sherlock that he had grossly miscalculated. He'd assumed that years of grieving, the acquisition of a fiancée, and the hard-won reinstatement of their friendship were all signs that John had moved on. That the attraction Sherlock had known about and denied since the day they met, no longer existed. But he'd been wrong. Appallingly wrong. Catastrophically wrong. However, this epiphany did not offer any suggestions for resolution. Sherlock would have to figure out how to proceed on his own.

It wouldn't do for both of them to act like idiots, this much he knew. One of them was going to have to get control of this situation. Now, whether 'control' meant acting on the frisson that passed freely between them, or walking away before the opportunity presented itself again, remained to be seen. All Sherlock could say with any confidence, was that he was not especially known for his self-control.

"I should probably get going," John said suddenly. Ever the voice of reason. "Sounds like the rain's picked up. Wouldn't want to worry Mary that I'm trotting around some back alley in this kind of weather."

"Of course, John," Sherlock said, finding himself only marginally successful in his attempt to mask the hurt in his voice. He reset the stylus. "Just one last thing." He returned to John and took up the leading pose. "The dip," he finished.

John hesitated, looking uncertainly at Sherlock's proffered hand. His gaze tracked up the length of Sherlock's arm, to his long neck, and finally stopped at his eyes. John waged a quick internal battle and in the end his better judgement was left a bloody pulp on the landscape of his mind, defeated by his desire to touch Sherlock once more. With a resolute sigh, he stepped into position, placing his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder and right into his open palm. Sherlock led them gracefully around the room, guiding John through turns and changes effortlessly. They drifted through the doleful waltz, equally caught in the story of love and loss and ever present hope that resonated through the piece.

John was paying closer attention this time, refusing himself the opportunity to become lost in the feel of Sherlock's body or the lascivious thoughts it produced in the darker recesses of his mind. So, as the end of the movement approached, in it's slowed tempo and gentle diminuendo, he was ready.

Sherlock's right hand splayed across John's back while his left moved to cradle the base of John's skull, supporting his weight as he began to tilt. Sherlock kept his back straight, hinging at his hips and pulling John in close to his body. The angle wasn't severe and John felt completely secure in Sherlock's arms for the few, long seconds that he was held there, aloft; existing somewhere between reality and the promise of Sherlock's embrace.

Slowly, Sherlock straightened, though he kept his arm wrapped tightly around John—holding them chest to chest. His fingers scratched through the short, flaxen hair at the nape of John's neck and John tilted into the touch. Their eyes met, too close to hide the torrent of unmentionable emotions simmering just below the surface. John blinked slowly, lowering his gaze from Sherlock's quicksilver eyes to his luscious pink mouth. A great conflict creased John's brow and he licked his lips in nervous anticipation.

"John," Sherlock breathed, a gentle susurration.

John's eyes drooped, air passed his parted lips in ragged breaths. "Yes," he whispered.

It was tacit permission, but it was enough. Sherlock brought his hand from the back of John's head to cup his jaw, his thumb idly traced John's cheek. He dipped his head down, slanting to the right and stopping just shy of contact. His breath washed, warm and tea-tinted, across John's face. Compelled by that unnameable emotion—the chimera of passion and affection and unmatched devotion—John closed the distance.

The brush of lips was soft and tentative, barely even a kiss when—

"Hoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson chirped with a gentle rap on the door. "Sherlock, did you need—oh, John. Oh..." she quickly fell silent as she appraised the scene. John pushed himself bodily off of Sherlock, turning his back to both of them. "Am I... er, interrupting?"

"No," John stated brusquely, brooking no argument. His body was trembling, his hands quaking as he reached for his coat. He felt sick, his stomach flipping violently as he fought to get his arms in his sleeves. "I was just leaving," he announced, his voice hard edged and strained. "Missus H," he said with a nod, then paused. "Sherlock," he stated coldly, without a backward glance.

In a blink he was gone, sweeping out the door and rushing down the stairs in a clamor. Mrs. Hudson looked back at Sherlock, equally shocked and scandalized. "Sherlock... what—"

Terror gripped him, freezing him in place for a few seconds, before the sound of the front door slamming shut broke him from his stupor. He tore past Mrs. Hudson and raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Wrenching the door open he hollered into the darkened street, "John!"

But the heavy downpour drowned out his voice. He stepped out and looked left then right, momentarily blinded by the sheets of rain. John's silhouette was small and hunched, but unmistakable as he marched away from 221B. Sherlock took off in a sprint, frantic to catch him before he hailed a cab.

"John!" he yelled again and this time he knew John must have heard him, as he'd picked up his pace. "John, please!"

Sherlock's long legs served him well; he caught John a few paces later and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. John wheeled about, fury scribed across his face and burning in his eyes. "What, Sherlock? For Christ's sake, what?"

Sherlock wiped the rain-soaked hair from his eyes and asked, "Why did you run out?"

For a moment John simply stared at him, and Sherlock tracked the change in his emotions through the shift of his eyebrows; first lifting to his hairline, then knitting together in deep furrows, and finally crashing back down. "Are you fucking serious?" he yelled and shook Sherlock's hand off his shoulder. "How can you...? I mean, you—oh, _Jesus_." John turned away, his hands fisted in his hair. The tremor was still there, Sherlock saw, rattling his hand against John's skull in a mocking vibrato. John completed his slow circle and brought his hands, now balled into white-knuckle fists, down to his sides. "How could you do that?"

"_Me?_" Sherlock asked, affronted. He stood there in utter confusion as the rain pelted down and soaked him through to the bone. He hadn't misread the queues, subtle as they were. Shallow breaths, blown pupils, body heat radiating like a beacon of want. John had closed the distance, he'd pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. And he was... what, blaming Sherlock? How was that fair? How was that even right?

"Yes, Sherlock. You. How could you invite me over, under the pretense of teaching me to dance. _For. My. Wedding. _And then... come on to me!" John lifted his hands and aggressively implored, "How could you do that?"

"Oh, for God's sake, John," Sherlock shouted back. "I didn't plan that. I'd never do that to you."

Sherlock dearly hoped the sincerity of his words came through, despite yelling over the downpour, because it was as close to a confession as he was capable of giving. He wanted John to understand, to finally observe the truth. He hadn't planned it, it had just happened. Because, deep down Sherlock had wanted John. All along, he'd wanted John. But, for all his bravado, he lacked the courage to ever tell him. The one person in the world that it mattered to the most.

John laughed, bitter and mirthless. "No. No of course you wouldn't. You'd never admit it."

"No," he said, calm and controlled as the rain slid down his face. "You're right, John. I'd never admit that."

John huffed another callous laugh but Sherlock continued, undaunted. Because these words needed to be spoken. They needed to be released before they destroyed the remaining fragments of their tenuous friendship.

"I'd never admit that, because I no longer have the right," Sherlock declared, eyes locked on John's, conveying the weight of his words.

John felt the anger slip from his expression, replaced by an entirely new flavor of frustration—an emotion Sherlock was endlessly adept at creating. This wasn't exasperation at Sherlock's selfishness or annoyance at his childish tendencies. This was a hollow, morose feeling.

"I may be oblivious to many aspects of human nature, John," Sherlock continued, "but I do understand that much. I lost that privilege, and I've been trying my damnedest to reconcile with that truth. But tonight, with the way you looked at me... I thought—"

"What?" John asked, his voice weaker than he expected. His eyes softened, still pinched with pain but clear with his intention. "You thought that I wouldn't mind? Well I do mind, Sherlock. I _mind_. I'm getting married. I... Mary..." he sighed heavily, unable to find the right words. "Look, none of this is fair," he gestured between them. "But this is the life I chose and I can't just… Just because you're back. You can't expect—"

"No," Sherlock interjected. "I know that. I do. I'm... Sorry."

John's brow furrowed in disbelief. He was completely unprepared for this apology. He knew he was right, but he'd never expect Sherlock to agree.

"Right. Good," he said slow and deliberate, adding a nod for emphasis. He looked up and felt the water pattering down on his face. With a deep breath he felt some of the tension ebb, some of the heat in his skin fizzle away—replaced by the chill of spring rain.

"God, I'm soaked," John said, looking back to Sherlock. He offered a tight smile. "I'm going, Sherlock. I'll see you next week. Stag night, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, John. Next week." His eyes flicked down and a wistful expression flashed across his face. "Give Mary my best," he said, tone soft and laced with sorrow.

He turned before John could respond and slowly made his way back. The door was still open, Mrs. Hudson huddled just inside the foyer with a shawl across her shoulders and a towel in her hands. She wrapped him in the thick terry cloth and rubbed his arms for both warmth and consolation. If she had any words of admonishment, she was politely saving them for later. Sherlock muttered a _'thanks'_ and made his way up the steps.

His shirt was ruined. He knew he should have changed it.


	2. Undeniable and Inescapable

**A/N: It started as just a ghost of a kiss. But, what could have happened if Mrs. Hudson hadn't come in? This is the alternate ending to the evening's dancing lesson. After the dip and before the fight - John's moment of surrender.**

**Warnings: Explicit gay sex. Carry on.**

**Disclaimer: I do not profit from this. I write because I love you.**

**Beta'd by: madnina, my guide through writing in this fandom. **

* * *

><p>The brush of lips was soft and tentative, barely even a kiss, and already John felt giddy. His mouth was on Sherlock's, his lips sliding to capture and recapture it. Such a thing seemed unbelievable, but here he was pressing soft kisses against Sherlock's lips and feeling them pucker and glide in reciprocation. They were sharing breath, Sherlock's slightly sweet and John's tinted with the sharp bite of alcohol. There was warmth, moisture, flesh against flesh—all the things John associated with kissing—and yet none of it was the same, because it was <em>Sherlock<em>.

John tilted his head and deepened the embrace, focusing his attention on each of Sherlock's full lips in turn. He wanted to take his time learning this beautiful terrain with its sculpted edges, dips and curves. This would be a moment etched into his memory, carved so deeply into his mind that he would never, could never, forget it.

When it finally occurred to John that he needed to breathe, he pulled back just enough to roughly inhale and switch the angle. The spice of Sherlock's cologne—not the fresh petrichor scent of his typical aftershave, John noted, but something stronger—inundated his senses and fogged his brain with swirling messages of danger and desire. John tightened the hand on Sherlock's shoulder and slid his right to Sherlock's hip, pulling him closer. The rest of the world seemed to drop away—fade into the ether—but Sherlock remained.

The kiss deepened by degrees, slowly gaining in intensity, until it became an all consuming thing. Sherlock's mouth was soft and commanding, as sweet as it was scathing, and John couldn't get enough. Desperate for more, he raised himself up on the balls of his feet and was rewarded when Sherlock's arms tightened around him.

He felt the flick of Sherlock's tongue, careful and deliberate, along the edge of his lower lip, seeking entrance. The velvety feel sent a shiver down John's spine and chased away any lingering doubt—he parted his lips to let his own tongue slip forward. The first bumps were unsure as they licked and tasted each other for the first time. But the timid, tender nascence of the kiss didn't last long. John soon opened his mouth in eager invitation, twining his tongue 'round Sherlock's. The next few seconds, feeling like both an eternity and an instant, were filled with languid rolls and teasing flicks.

The twist of tongues, the slide of lips, and the light rasp of stubble twisted John's stomach, bringing that fluttering sensation back in full force. He suckled lightly on Sherlock's tongue, finding the taste terribly addictive. His heart was racing, beating at a tempo that barely kept up with the dervish of hormones singing through his blood. It was almost too overwhelming, this maelstrom of love and lust and want and delirious need. His hand drifted, compelled by some hindbrain instinct, to the back of Sherlock's head, where he threaded his fingers through the soft curls. The strands were thicker and silkier than he'd ever imagined and when he tugged them ever so lightly, Sherlock sighed. John's chest tightened at the sound and he whimpered in sympathy.

Sherlock pulled back just enough to smear his words against John's lips. "Tell me to stop, John," he whispered. "You have to tell me to stop."

John frantically kissed at Sherlock's mouth, tracing along the curve of his upper lip. "Why would I do that?"

"Because... If you don't... I won't be able to," Sherlock answered, slurring out his words between the haphazard clash of their lips.

John broke the manic kiss and looked up. Through his own intoxicated haze, John was able to see the tumult of emotions that Sherlock was laying bare in his eyes. He suddenly felt terribly guilty for ever doubting that Sherlock could feel like this—so strong and earnest. He had to wonder how long Sherlock had been hiding this from him. _Months? Years? Since before... well, before?_

It was so like Sherlock to finally admit his feelings at the most inconvenient moment possible. Although, John supposed, it could have been worse, he could have waited until the day of the wedding. _Oh, god. The wedding. Mary._ John closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. He tried to imagine turning away from this moment, pretending it never happened. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't even fathom it. He opened his eyes with the knowledge that his next words would be irreversible in their consequence. It seemed like the kind of thing one ought to take time to consider, and John was rarely impulsive. But, if he were honest with himself, it wasn't really much of a question.

"No," he said, soft but sure. "Don't stop."

Relief flooded Sherlock's eyes and curled the corners of his mouth into a warm smile. It was so genuine and so innocent that John found it almost painful to observe. Sherlock had been uncertain, John realized, and the force of his surprise and incredulity furrowed his brow. The Great Detective had risked it all before he'd had known. But John knew. John was confident that this was the answer. He'd be a fool to try to convince himself that he could let Sherlock go. And it had to be telling that even the thought of hurting Mary—seeing the pain of betrayal and disappointment in the pretty blue eyes of a woman he truly loved—wasn't enough to stop him. But before he could dwell on that thought, Sherlock had descended upon him once more.

With both his hands now cupping John's jaw, Sherlock consumed him. He licked into John's mouth as if he had something to prove and John felt a swell of affection at the thought. His hands tightened, blunt fingernails digging into the tender flesh of Sherlock's nape. Sherlock moaned, the sound vibrating against John's chest—heating his blood and forcing his hips to cant forward in a single, unstoppable thrust. Sherlock moaned again, this time rough and ragged. He redoubled his efforts, slowly curling his tongue behind John's teeth. John slanted his head to the left and allowed Sherlock to map out his mouth with the same precision he'd apply to an experiment. John made a soft sound of pleasure when Sherlock sucked on his tongue, and rumbled a deep moan when Sherlock nibbled on his bottom lip.

The kiss began to unravel, to break down into a frantic pressing of mouths and groping of hands. John clumsily fought with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, finding it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on releasing them when Sherlock had started to kiss and suck a trail over his jaw and down his neck. Sherlock didn't help the matter when he began to push John backward, toward the chair that currently sat on the border between sitting room and kitchen. John fell back into the seat and clawed at the arms, swiping his tongue hungrily across his bottom lip. He watched as Sherlock finished with the buttons and pulled the shirt tails out of his trousers. The shirt remained on, hanging open and framing the pale expanse of Sherlock's chest and stomach, as he fell into John's lap. With his legs tucked on either side of John's hips and his fingers carding through John's hair, Sherlock dipped his head down once more.

Years of sexual tension unfurled in a matter of seconds. All the glances, the words unspoken, the careful avoidance—it all crumbled apart as their mouths melded together. And in its place something fragile was forged; a gossamer bandage over the wounds they'd left on one another. It was a fine weave of forgiveness and penance and promises, laid delicately and reaffirmed with each searing kiss.

John slipped his hands under Sherlock's shirt and felt the heat of his skin. His fingers brushed up Sherlock's sides, then around his back to trace the subtle bumps of his spine, up and down and up and down. _It'll never be enough,_ he thought, blearily. He could spend the rest of his days running his palms over the lithe, alabaster body and never be satisfied. His hands skated down, over the waist of Sherlock's trousers, to firmly grasp the swell of his arse. He groped at Sherlock like a schoolboy—greedy and covetous; like a man who had spent too many nights imagining this very thing and never believing he'd have the opportunity.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, soft and breathy. In the confined space of the chair he managed a slightly awkward roll of his hips, encouraging John to squeeze and pull, to grind them together. Sherlock's arousal was unmistakable. He babbled into the sloppy collision of their mouths, "John... John."

"Mmm," John murmured, barely coherent. "Yeah?"

Sherlock tugged on John's hair, pulling his head back and exposing the tender flesh of his throat. "I..." Sherlock began, but lost the thought as he dragged his tongue to John's thrumming pulse and firmly attached his mouth. He sucked a beautiful, rosy blossom into the skin—a stake of his claim. It would fade within a day, but that would only give him an opportunity to do it all over again; a nightly ritual he'd perform with zeal.

Pressing his temple to John's cheek, Sherlock tried again, "I want..."

John shivered as hot breath washed over his ear. "What?" he asked, and it was nearly a plea. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned, suddenly scrambling to find the words he'd always longed to say, but never had the courage. He sought out John's lips once again, searching for the strength to say it now. It wasn't a particularly romantic sentiment, these words. But they conveyed a whole host of feelings—desires and needs—that Sherlock never admitted to having. He liked to believe he was above it all, that he was somehow more evolved than the common man. But John had complicated things, had made him experience the various flavors of friendship, and then something even deeper. It was a messy amalgamation but there was no denying that love was the emotion that bound it all together. How did people express this beautiful, aching feeling? Words seemed grossly inadequate.

"I want to fuck you, John," Sherlock stated, breathless. Yearning. Absolute. "Can I fuck you?"

"Yes," John croaked, then swallowed thickly. "Yeah. Okay."

Sherlock pulled his face back to look into John's eyes, searching for any signs of doubt; he found none, and his lips curled with impish satisfaction. Employing more grace than John would have ever been able to muster, Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair. He extended his hand and pulled John swiftly to his feet, then snaked his arms around John's sides. His hands insinuated themselves in John's back pockets, squeezing and tugging him closer, while he slipped a thigh between John's legs. A fresh flame of arousal lit John's eyes and he licked his lips as he stared up.

"Go to my room," Sherlock commanded, even as he continued to grind John against his leg. He nuzzled into the soft skin just under John's ear. "I'll be right behind you."

Sherlock released him and John did as instructed, making his way down the hall on embarrassingly unsteady legs. In a flurry of nervous excitement, John flung off his shoes, tore off his cardigan and popped two buttons off his shirt. Standing in only his vest and pants, John stared at himself in the mirror of Sherlock's armoire. There was a healthy flush of arousal tinting his skin and an unmistakable shadow defining the bulge in his boxer briefs. He paced before his reflection, debating on whether or not to remove the last of his clothes, when he heard Sherlock's light footfalls moving down the hallway.

As Sherlock crossed the threshold John turned to him, and the nervous clench of his hands relaxed; he took a deep breath and smiled. He stood under the weight of Sherlock's intense scrutiny and felt his skin tighten as those mercurial eyes passed over his features. He was a little softer than he'd like, scarred, and weathered beyond his years. He certainly wasn't the type of man he'd expect a posh git like Sherlock to find attractive. But he wasn't considering all the things that Sherlock found fascinating, he didn't appreciate the mystery hidden in the very things he called imperfections.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice low and dangerous in a way that made John's pulse quicken. He didn't say anything else as he tugged off his shirt and tossed it carelessly to the floor—a casualty of Sherlock's single-minded attention.

In the warm glow of his bedside lamp, Sherlock examined John closely, appraising him in the way only Sherlock could—piercingly intimate. He sauntered up slowly, dragging his eyes from John's ankles, up his legs, to linger on the contour of John's cock. He didn't remain distracted for long, as he pulled his gaze up to track along the gentle angle of John's torso and the curve of his shoulder.

He closed the distance just as his eyes landed on John's, where they held in silent challenge. It wasn't about submission, strictly speaking, it was about surrender. It was about relinquishing the control they both held onto with a strangle-grip and giving themselves up to one another. There was a stillness about them, a tension in the air—filled with the weight of pride, the sizzle of desire, the elation of _finally_.

In the end, it was Sherlock who broke first.

He slid to the floor and brought his hands up to cup John's hips, the span of Sherlock's fingers spreading over the thin cotton of his briefs. John held his breath as he watched Sherlock nuzzle against the apex of his legs, bringing his nose to the crease of pelvis and thigh, to inhale deeply. The edge of Sherlock's cheek rubbed against his straining cock, forcing a shuddering exhale from John's nostrils. His abs trembled and hands clenched uselessly at his sides as Sherlock pressed closer. The grip on John's hips tightened, the only warning before Sherlock parted his lips to mouth at the sensitive juncture. The hot breath seeping through fabric was nearly unbearable, and John wanted little more than to throw his head back and howl a long, drawn out '_fuuuck'6_. But he endured—the sight of Sherlock's head between his legs too amazing to miss.

Sherlock's talented lips found their way to John's tightly drawn sac and wrapped around one ball; he sucked through the cotton, gently scraping with his teeth. He released after a moment and applied the same treatment to the other testicle. John groaned and felt the subtle quake of muscle in his left leg.

John was struggling to keep control. Soft mewls clawed at his throat but he managed to tamp them down. He raised his head and blew out a steady breath, then his eyes rolled toward the ceiling as Sherlock's tongue curled languidly around and behind his bollocks. Arousal was washing over him in an unstoppable deluge and his cock throbbed in supplication.

Finally, Sherlock pulled back, offering John a reprieve from the exquisite torture of his mouth. John looked down to see Sherlock smile at the damp patch darkening the fabric stretched taut around the tip of his prick. Sherlock leaned in to more closely examine the stain of precome—squinting in contemplation, sniffing delicately, then quickly swiping his tongue against it. John should have been embarrassed by the cursory analysis, but couldn't be arsed. Honestly, he expected no less from Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sat back on his heels with his eyes closed, looking for all the world like he was sampling a fine wine. John wondered if he was satisfied with the flavor—the musky, bitter, salty taste of his arousal. He wanted Sherlock to like it—to love it—to revel in the taste as he lapped up entire streaks of the stuff. John imagined it, he pictured Sherlock bent over him as he carefully, dutifully, cleaned up thick, pearly stripes from John's belly. The thought made him moan aloud.

"Sherlock…" John said, cautiously. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock's obvious enjoyment, but his aching need could not be ignored.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, revealing irises ringed thin around dilated pupils. Sherlock's gaze was the very definition of an event horizon—and John wished for nothing more than to throw himself in and allow himself to be consumed.

Sherlock got to his feet once more and reached for John, catching the hem of his vest and tugging it upward. John raised his arms and allowed the shirt to be pulled over his head. Sherlock's gaze traveled over John's body as if he'd never seen him so divested, which wasn't true of course, though perhaps quick glimpses during invasions of privacy weren't quite the same.

Tentatively, Sherlock reached out. The tips of his fingers, like white-hot branding irons, brushed over the shallow ridge of John's clavicles. His right diverted to trace along the uneven border of John's scar—the delineation between his body and the violence that ultimately brought them together. Sherlock caressed the smooth, pink flesh like a thing to be cherished. John knew he should find the idea morbid, but it somehow seemed sweetly sentimental. Sherlock didn't linger there for long, for which John was slightly relieved. He wasn't so vain as to be self-conscious, but the attention still felt strange. Maybe next time he'd be bold enough to let Sherlock run his tongue over the dimpled center, let the man learn the taste of serendipity.

Sherlock's hands slid down John's ribs, following the quick rise and fall of his chest, and stopped to cup the slightly padded curve of his waist. He smoothed his thumbs just above John's hips; such a delicate touch for an otherwise abrasive man.

John found it difficult to meet Sherlock's gaze as his fingers slipped under the waistband of his pants to tease at his buttocks. When he felt the hint of a squeeze, John's breath left him in a noisy rush. Sherlock watched him with rapt attention and John felt like a specimen under the lens of Sherlock's microscope, a thought that was almost as disconcerting as it was titillating.

"Have you been with a man before?" Sherlock asked, head slightly cocked and nose brushing against John's crown.

"Yeah," John answered, nodding shakily. "Been a while though."

Sherlock hummed, as if in agreement, and his hands slid lower to fill his palms with the muscle of John's arse. "Of course," he stated, cool and pragmatic. "Not since your army days. A dalliance with another medical officer, a man that saw the same war as you—the gore and the death. Someone who could appreciate the value of a beating heart. He would have been an equal ranking officer, as you wouldn't want to engage in any unnecessary risk beyond the initial sexual transgression. Though you did have an emotional affair of sorts with a commanding officer, as evidenced by your—"

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"Shut up," John said, quiet but stern. He took Sherlock by the wrists and pushed his hands down, effectively stripping himself of his briefs. As the fabric slid down his thighs, John turned his attention to Sherlock's trousers, making quick work of the button and fly. Sherlock followed John's lead, toeing off his shoes and socks and stepping out of the wool pooled at his feet.

For a moment, they simply stood there—bare feet on the cool wood floor and soft light washing over their bodies. John took his time to appreciate the long, lean lines of muscle that defined Sherlock's body. All his angles and planes. His eyes raked up and down and finally settled on Sherlock's chest. John's focus shifted from one tight, pink nipple, across Sherlock's sternum and the light smattering of hair, to the other rosy nub. Slowly, John's gaze lowered, directed by a thin, dark trail that started just below Sherlock's navel and led down. He'd never known an erection to be so goddamn enticing. But that was the only word that came to John's mind at the sight of Sherlock's cock. His mouth watered and his mind screamed _'want!'_.

John managed to pull his gaze up in time to see Sherlock's eyes sweep over his nude form with equally lascivious intent. John could feel heat curl low in his belly as Sherlock's attention lingered on the flushed rod jutting proudly from between his legs.

John couldn't recall ever feeling so exposed in his life. He never could hide anything from Sherlock, with the sole exception of his simmering desire. And even that, he suspected, was only successful because Sherlock had _also _been desperately trying to deny what was between them. But now, standing under Sherlock's dissecting gaze, John felt like all his secrets were on display.

Sherlock stepped back up to him, lifting his hand to graze over John's jaw and slipping his fingers in the hair behind his ear. "Are you nervous?" he asked, his voice little more than a husky murmur.

"A little," John answered, knowing denial would be futile. "You?"

Sherlock's eyes pinched, his gaze sharpened. "This is a paradigm altering moment. What happens tonight will define the foundation upon which our future relationship will be built. Of course I'm nervous. What if I fail to perform? What if I'm unable to communicate the depth and complexity of my feelings? What if—"

"What if," John interjected, peering up at Sherlock with his brow raised expectantly, "you have more than just tonight? What if you have a lifetime?"

A slow smile curved Sherlock's lips. "I'd like that, John. I'd like that very much."

John lifted himself on the balls of his feet and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. He pressed himself fully against Sherlock's front, relishing in the first contact of skin on skin. "Then take me to bed, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered into Sherlock's ear, rolling his hips in suggestion.

Sherlock slid his hands across John's back, pressing one against his sacrum and nestling the other into the hair at the base of his skull. His fingers tightened, pulling short, fair hairs, and forcing John to look up into his eyes. John swallowed thickly at the sight of Sherlock's eyes—usually so clear—now dark, wild and mischievous. A wicked grin curled Sherlock's lips.

In a move so smooth John could have sworn it had been choreographed, Sherlock picked John up by the hips, spun around and planted him on the mattress with a bounce. John leaned back on his elbows, unabashed in his nudity, and scooted up the length of the bed. Sherlock followed in hot pursuit, prowling his way across the fine linens.

John smiled broadly, his whole expression flushed bright with excitement. Watching the lithe, sensuous movement of Sherlock's body, he once again struggled with the knowledge that this was not, in fact, a dream. This wasn't fantasy. John was really spread out underneath Sherlock. Sherlock was actually running his hand up John's thigh. John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's fingertips as they traced the juncture of pelvis and leg, creeping steadily toward the thick root of his cock.

"Shhhit..." John hissed as those long fingers curled around him.

Sherlock growled and squeezed, clearly sharing John's sentiment. John felt himself throb and swell, further filling the circle of Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock may tease him about his height, but John knew that for all of his compact nature, his prick was impressive—after all, not many men had to employ the use if both hands during a wank. But it fit beautifully in Sherlock's large grip, like a puzzle piece having found its partner.

Sherlock settled down on one elbow, laying his long body along John's and rubbing his nose affectionately against John's temple. He slid a loose fist from base to tip and back, pulling back the foreskin and revealing a beautifully flared, rosy head. "What would you like, John?"

Eyes closed and lip firmly gripped between his teeth, John arched into the touch. Sherlock continued his light, teasing tug until John huffed a frustrated sigh, and began to thrust up into the circle of his fingers.

"Tell me what you want," Sherlock instructed, maintaining his tortuous strokes.

John cracked his eyes and raised a playful brow. "And deny you the pleasure of deduction?" he taunted.

Sherlock accepted the challenge with a quirk of his brow and cock of his head. "Very well," he rumbled.

Sitting back on his heels, Sherlock appraised John fully, mapping out the topography of his body and filing the information away. "What does John Watson like?" he asked, clicking off the final consonant in the back of his throat. He stroked John's cock contemplatively. "What gets him off?"

John tried to meet Sherlock's calculated stare, but his eyes fluttered shut and neck stretched on a moan when Sherlock's thumb grazed over his slit. He groaned despondently when Sherlock removed his hand completely. "Let's start with a sexual history, shall we?" Sherlock said, as he raised his hand to his mouth, sucking his thumb lewdly. He really couldn't get enough of John's flavor. "You had your first sexual encounter, beyond that of your own hand, at a fairly young age—thirteen or fourteen—with an older girl. One of Harry's friends perhaps? Yes. It was quick—embarrassingly quick by your reckoning—and wasn't to be repeated. A few more awkward fumblings took you through to graduation and a pact with a female friend to have lost your virginity upon entrance to university brought you off in the backseat of your father's car. How am I doing so far?"

"Brilliant," John said, his eyes sparkling with awe. He paused a moment and tilted his head. "A rather depressing description of my formative years, but spot on."

Sherlock smiled brightly. "Excellent. Moving on then. You grew into yourself, so to speak, at uni. Gained confidence, found a sense of purpose and direction in medicine. You had your first serious relationship with a woman early into your time there—eager to get out of your adolescent funk. It didn't last very long."

"No," John conceded. "We didn't even make it to the end of the term."

Sherlock focused his gaze, watching John for tell-tale micro expressions. He observed the subtle pinch of John's eyes and the minute purse of his lips—concealment with a hint of arrogance. Sherlock lifted his chin, calling John's bluff.

"It was still significant in it's own right. It fell apart over your interest in another man." He stalled as he considered the possibilities. "A mutual friend?"

"Her cousin, actually," John answered, with a slightly wistful but wholly fond smile. "He didn't go to school with us but liked to hang out on campus to score weed. He was the exact opposite of everything else in my life and I found that rather refreshing."

"Indeed," Sherlock replied. There seemed a parallel in there, and not so deeply hidden. "So he was your rebellious stage, every young adult has one, but you outgrew him rather quickly. He was a distraction to your goals and as you were on scholarship, you couldn't afford to let him drag you down."

It was a lucky thing that Sherlock rambled his deductions with such detachment, otherwise he may have stopped to consider how precisely cutting his own words were. It seemed as if history had a way of repeating itself even in John's love affairs. "After that," Sherlock continued, "you swore off relationships and focused on school. You discovered a special interest in emergency medicine—your long repressed adrenaline junkie finding himself a niche—and the army seemed to fit the bill."

Sherlock traced his fingers along John's side, noting a few small scars—relics of the desert. "The RAMC gave you a worldly experience," he said, looking back up at John's face, once more searching for any tells. "There's not much you haven't tried and very little that would surprise you. You enjoy the sense of vitality that comes with a little roughness, that much is obvious, but you wouldn't want to be tied up."

His hand moved to circle around John's wrist and he felt the slight coil of tension in John's forearm, before John was able to suppress it. _ Trust issues_, Sherlock thought. There were still mysteries in John's past, things Sherlock might not ever fully understand. He squeezed a little tighter and wasn't at all surprised when John pulled of out his grip and grasped onto Sherlock's wrist in retaliation. Sherlock smiled darkly. "Although perhaps you wouldn't mind tying me up from time to time—though I suspect that would be slightly less sexual and more out of frustration."

"We could make it sexual," John growled in response.

Sherlock's eyes darkened and smoldered. "Good," he purred.

John loosened his grip and Sherlock pulled his hands back to steeple under his chin. "But there is something else, isn't there? Something besides rough hands and a bit of teeth. Something else you discovered in the army…"

John swallowed. "It's nothing, Sherlock. Certainly doesn't apply here."

"No, no, no," Sherlock said, dropping his hands to his lap and narrowing his eyes. "Something is never nothing. What is it? What is it that you could experience in the army but not so easily outside of it? What… being surrounded by all those men… We've already established that you were only physically intimate with one other officer, so it couldn't be something as simple as group sex."

_"Simple?"_

Sherlock ignored him and closed his eyes in concentration. "Hmmm… Only one lover. Densely populated. Little privacy. Oh… Oh!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing open. "Of course. Voyeurism! But which do you like more, John? To watch or to be watched?"

"I-I…" John stuttered.

"No! Don't tell me."

Sherlock swung one long leg over John's hips and brought his hand to his own cock. His erection had flagged a little during his deduction, but it didn't take much to get him fully hard again. Sherlock studied John with alarming intensity even as his fist flew over his shaft.

"The first time I heard you having a wank in the shower we'd been living together for about four months," Sherlock stated plainly and John's jaw went slack. "I'd been walking down the hall, heard a muffled groan and paused. I realized immediately what was going on and—now this may come as a shock to you—I knew I shouldn't listen. But—and this probably won't surprise you—I did anyway. I listened as you climaxed and found myself _achingly _hard."

Sherlock slowed his strokes and rolled his hips in what had to have been a very purposeful and gratuitous display. John watched, mouth gaping and breathing quick, as Sherlock's hand made slow work of his shaft. He almost didn't register the sound of Sherlock's baritone as he continued his monologue, "I did the only thing that made sense to me in that moment. I slapped on two nicotine patches and had a furious wank in my room. Did you hear me as well? I'm not too terribly quiet. Did you listen as I spit in my palm and stroked myself?"

Clenching his jaw, John took a deep, centering breath. It wouldn't do anybody any good if he came untouched to Sherlock's salacious soliloquy. He was right, of course. The idea of Sherlock listening to him, getting off while John touched himself, was beyond erotic.

"The next time I heard you I didn't waste any time," Sherlock said, low and conspiratorially. "I took my cock out right in that hallway and kept pace with you. But you had a bit of a head start and I wasn't able to finish until just before you walked out. I had to dash for my room with my hand covered in come and trousers sliding down my arse."

Sherlock's delicately slanted eyes, narrowed a bit. He was making some sort of assessment, John knew, but what conclusions he would draw were still uncertain. Needing just a bit more data, Sherlock leaned down, spreading his body out in top of John's and lining up their cocks to rub insidiously.

With a leisurely roll of his hips, Sherlock continued, "I heard you once with the boring teacher—"

"—Janette—"

"Yes, that one. I rather liked her—tall, with dark hair—she reminded me of somebody," he said, smug and more than a little teasing. "I'd received a text from Gavin, asking me to meet him at the morgue, so naturally I went up to fetch you. A closed door wouldn't normally stop me, but the sounds coming from your room brought me up short. She was making a horrible racket, but you… You were making the most lovely sounds. Soft moans and _'God, yes'_. The gentle squeak of your bedsprings and thud of your headboard. If I hadn't been in a hurry I'd have stroked myself until I came all over your door. I'd have marked it so thoroughly that the next woman you tried to bring up would know, unequivocally, that you were taken."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groaned. Sherlock's words had him burning up, making him delirious with lust.

Over the years, he'd heard Sherlock say all kinds of shocking things. There were times when his words were vicious, thoughtless, and insincere; and still others when they were brilliant, pacifying, and charming. But they were never—_never_—so thrillingly lewd.

John gripped Sherlock's arse in his hands and forcefully ground him down, bringing their hard pricks together in a hot, rough slide. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips and rocked up, smearing precome between their bellies. All higher brain function seemed to cease for the next few seconds as John rutted against the flat plane of Sherlock's abdomen.

"Uh," Sherlock grunted, snagging his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally he managed a graveled, "Fuck, John."

Nodding in eager agreement, John chased Sherlock's mouth and plundered it soundly. His tongue swiped and curled, coaxing out more soft whimpers. _Quite like him like this_, John thought vaguely; after all, it wasn't often that Sherlock was speechless.

With a last, languid lap, John pulled back. He met Sherlock's libertine gaze with his own dark eyes. "You found me out, then," he rasped, voice edging on feral.

Sherlock blinked slowly, a smirk creeping across his lips. "Oh, yes, John Watson. I know what you like," he answered. He leaned down and brushed his mouth over the shell of John's ear to whisper, "I'm going to fuck you at a crime scene. Right under the Met's nose. Think we can get away with it? You'll have to keep quiet. Could you do that? With so many people within ear shot?"

There was a moment—just a single heartbeat—in which the world seemed to stop, then suddenly John grabbed Sherlock by the hair and snarled wildly. Caught off guard, Sherlock was helpless against John's strength as their positions were flipped. He tried to buck, but couldn't dislodge the five foot, six inch animal that had mounted him. John smeared a kiss across Sherlock's mouth and jaw, then sank his teeth into the side of his long neck.

"John... Ah! John," Sherlock keened.

Grudgingly, John released Sherlock's neck, but his kept him pinned between his thighs. With his chest heaving and his cock dribbling warm pearls, John felt more virile, more alive, than he had in years. Sherlock smiled up at him and brought his hand up to gently stroke his face from temple to jaw, as if to soothe a skittish creature.

John swallowed, his breathing calmed. After a moment of gentle handling, he leaned into Sherlock's palm and his whole body relaxed. Within seconds the delicate nature of the night reasserted itself. John remembered himself, remembered the significance of where he was and who he was with. He leaned down once more, but this time his kisses were soft and reverent.

Slowly he worked his way down Sherlock's chest, pressing his lips to the fine scars of Sherlock's two-year adventure and spending ample time sampling his navel. He nudged into the groomed thatch of dark hair at Sherlock's pelvis and mouthed around the base of his blushing cock. The scent of Sherlock's arousal triggered something primal in John and his mouth watered, feeling cavernous. It was suddenly imperative that he have Sherlock's prick between his lips.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's girth, holding it steady as he dragged his tongue over the shaft. It may have been more than a few years since he'd last caressed another man's penis so intimately, but John hadn't forgotten how much he enjoyed it. The smooth, velvety texture, the heat, the dense, salty tang. He lapped gluttonously up the length, then slipped the tip of his tongue underneath the foreskin, teasing at the sensitive flesh. Sherlock moaned and his cock throbbed, stiffening even more. John hummed in appreciation as the foreskin retracted fully, revealing a round, glossy head.

"I've dreamt of sucking your cock for ages," he said, peering up the length of pale torso and settling his searing gaze on Sherlock's face. He was pleased to see the hooded eyes and blushed cheeks of a man undone. John smiled slowly. "I'm going to thoroughly enjoy this."

Pressing his mouth to the tip of Sherlock's prick, John tasted the first drops of his arousal. He dipped his head down farther and let the gentle ridge slide past his lips to graze against his teeth and nudge into his hard palate. Hungrily, John bobbed, taking more of Sherlock's length into his mouth and swirling his tongue 'round with fervor.

John was desperate to learn what Sherlock liked, what would ravage him with pleasure and tear him apart. And while he might not be able to deduce it with a single look, he could certainly employ every trick in his arsenal to find out. He experimented with pressure, alternating between long, hard draughts and delicate suckles focused on the tip. Next, he twisted his tongue around the crown, then flicked it vigorously against the sensitive delta of his frenulum. All the while, he made note of the mewls and moans, the way Sherlock clawed at the bed and spread his legs wider and wider, planting his feet and tilting his hips until he was fucking up into John's mouth. Hot tears prickled at the corner of John's eyes as Sherlock's cock prodded against the back of his throat, but he rallied, took a deep breath through his nose, and swallowed. Sherlock's strangled cry was well worth it.

"John... John..." Sherlock panted. "Oh, Christ—John!"

Sherlock reached out frantically and clenched his fingers into John's hair, tugging him up and off. Instantly, John's hand replaced his mouth, squeezing around the base of Sherlock's erection and staving off orgasm. Chest heaving and eyes manic, Sherlock pulled John down and crushed their lips together. His grip in John's hair relaxed, his large palm opening to cup the back of John's head. The tension ebbed and Sherlock's breathing slowly returned to normal, the kiss softened and Sherlock's fingers began to gently card through the gold-grey strands.

John drew back just far enough to look down into Sherlock's eyes. With the soft golden light throwing his sharp angles into relief and his riot of curls crowning him like a dark halo, Sherlock looked more like a masterpiece than a man; a baroque painting of a debauched angel or an enticing succubus. John considered him a bit of both.

He sat up further, planting his arse on Sherlock's hips so his bollocks rested on the root of Sherlock's prick. John rocked back and forth, sliding his sac along the thick vein, and licked his lips. Feeling light headed—absolutely dizzy with lust—John's eyelids drooped and a slow, lopsided smile tilted his mouth. A hot trickle of precome beaded at John's slit, rolled languidly down his shaft, and dripped once, twice onto Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock inhaled with a low hiss. He ran his hands up John's thighs and dug his blunt nails into the soft skin as he dragged them back down. John bit his bottom lip and rolled his hips with more intent.

John really should have expected that if ever the moment came when they gave into their desires, there would be little need for speaking. Declarations were nice, the words they had shared tonight were perfect, but they were unnecessary. All he needed was a single look—soft eyes and slightly raised brow, a suggestive quirk to the corner of his mouth—and Sherlock would know, instantly, everything John wanted.

Sherlock nodded silently and shifted John over to his side. He threw his long, slender frame halfway off the mattress and fumbled around on the floor before returning with his prize. Mineral oil, John saw and took the bottle from Sherlock's hand.

"Nicked this from your microscope?"

Sherlock shrugged in feigned indifference. "I don't own any other lubricant. I wasn't exactly prepared for... this," he said with a gesture toward the bed and their naked bodies. "But this should do just fine."

John had already upended the yorker bottle and squeezed out a drop to test on the tip of his finger. The liquid was thin but viscous—it would work in a pinch. He handed the bottle back and laid down once more.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow from next to John's head and settled between John's spread legs. "Up," he said, then slid the pillow beneath John's raised hips. John settled once more, shifting until the pillow hugged the curve of his spine and left his pelvis elevated. He was completely exposed—hard dick laying against his stomach, bollocks poised above his taint, arsehole on display. It occurred to him that he should have felt nervous under Sherlock's gaze, but he didn't. Looking at Sherlock, the man didn't seem the least put off by what he saw—the fine dusting of hair on his sac or the ruddy shadow surrounding his anus.

With a light and curious touch, Sherlock ran his dry finger down the crease of one leg, ghosted over the pucker of John's hole and back up the opposite side. He cupped John's balls, squeezed and hefted, as if testing them, then pressed one knuckle firmly into his perineum and rubbed. Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued, as John groaned and his balls drew up tightly in Sherlock's hand.

"A sensitive prostate, John?" Sherlock asked, smirk evident in his tone. "Well then, no wonder you're so keen to be _fucked_."

Sherlock withdrew his hand and squeezed a generous amount of oil onto his fingers. He pressed the slender tip of his index finger to John's hole and easily slid past the first knuckle. His eyes flicked up as John sighed and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock returned his attention to his hand and the length of his finger lodged firmly within John, he pulled back then pushed it in once more, sinking to the last knuckle.

"Mmm... Yeah," John murmured. He clenched and relaxed the muscles of his chute, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

And Sherlock did. He fingered John passionately, with care and reverence. He'd never fathomed engaging John in this level of intimacy, this kind of vulnerability. Sherlock had always thought he was too distant and broken—incapable of providing John with what he'd want and need. Likewise, before tonight, he'd thought John had come to his senses and moved beyond his obsession. The realization that he'd been so wrong brought with it a euphoria he'd never experienced without chemical assistance.

Sherlock watched John writhe against the bed, muscles flexing as he rolled his hips in time with the gentle thrusts. He was beautifully responsive—clenching his hands, arching his back, and panting. When it seemed that John had reached the peak of what a single digit could provide, Sherlock curled his finger against the smooth bulge of John's prostate and rubbed until he was near sobbing.

"Ah! Sher—fuck," John cried out. He thrashed his head until Sherlock finally took pity and withdrew. "Christ, more, Sherlock," John whimpered. "Please."

Sherlock applied another stripe of oil to his fingers and brought two to John's entrance. The resistance was notable, but not hindering,` and Sherlock slowly twisted and pushed until his long fingers were deeply sheathed. This time, he worked John with smooth, fast strokes that loosened him even as they ratcheted up the tension throughout the rest of John's body.

John's hands fisted and tugged at the duvet until he could finally take no more, and brought a hand to himself. He palmed the sticky, slick head of his prick, rubbing it firmly against the skin just below his navel. Sherlock didn't argue, he knew it would be just enough to take the edge off, relieving some of the throbbing pressure.

"I'm ready, Sherlock," John said, voice commanding despite his compromised position.

Sherlock continued to pump, pressing his fingers against the walls for additional stretch. "Are you sure?" he asked, surprised and a little unsure. "We don't have to rush this if—"

"I said I'm ready," John interjected, then added with a sheepish smile, "I can't wait any longer."

Sherlock nodded, he could appreciate the sentiment. Indeed, they had been waiting for so long. They'd danced around each other for years, neither ever finding the strength to acknowledge the thing growing in the space between them. They'd neglected it, left their mutual feelings to blossom into a wild bramble—a messy tangle of emotions. And now they were sorting through it, weeding out the unhealthy bits and tending to the delicate new growth. Only one thing remained.

Pulling his fingers out, Sherlock quickly grabbed the bottle. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he squeezed the oil into the cup of his palm and slicked it up and down his length in several languid passes. Sherlock scooted up, poising himself between John's thighs, and stopped. It had been many years since he'd last been in this position—on the verge of entering another man—and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a fear of inadequacy. Surely John, with all his experience, had certain expectations. It would be terribly disappointing if he failed to be brilliant now, when John was so accustomed to his genius.

The moment of pause stretched on, and finally John asked, "Problem?"

Sherlock blinked at him, as if coming back to reality. "No. You?"

"No," John answered with an awkward chuckle.

Sherlock nodded once again and returned his attention to the task quite literally at hand. He rubbed his cock along the crack of John's arse, as if to acquaint them both with the precise nature of what was about to happen. He drew closer and closer to his target and finally nudged the head of his prick against the tender flesh of John's entrance.

John inhaled sharply and Sherlock looked to him with clear concern. "It's fine," John reassured. "I've just never done...it... like this, before."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting down and back up. "Penetrative?" he asked dubiously.

John huffed a breathy laugh. "Face to face," he answered, then clarified, "with another man."

"Ah."

"Yeah." John reached up, beckoning Sherlock down. "C'mere."

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, nestling one hand in inky black curls and sliding the other down to trace the notches of his spine. Sherlock succumbed to the touch, his anxiety melting away. They kissed softly—deeply—with long sweeps of tongue and gentle tugs on lips.

The embrace deepened and their bodies slid together, rocking against each other with equal need. Sherlock shifted his hips and his cock once again took on its quest for John's pucker. After a moment of blind fumbling and poorly aimed thrusts, Sherlock reached a hand between their bodies and guided his prick to gently press into the furled ring of muscle.

John hissed, his eyes crinkling in discomfort, and Sherlock stilled; he placed his free hand against John's cheek and brushed his thumb soothingly across John's lips. John blinked lazily, and, by increments, his respirations steadied and relaxed. Sherlock could feel the inviting give of John's body as he bore down, accepting the thick intrusion of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock pushed forward and felt the stretch of John's anus constricting around him. He held his breath as the gently tapered tip of his cock sank into the tight heat, and once the flare of his crown popped past the thick ring, he exhaled in a whoosh. He continued to press forward until the pillowy channel sheathed him completely and his pelvis sat flush against the curve of John's arse.

Sherlock was officially balls deep inside John Watson. It was Christmas.

"Do you need a moment, or…" Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding uncharacteristically shy, even to himself.

John shook his head. "No, love. Move. Fuck me."

Sherlock swallowed excitedly, his heart rate skyrocketed. But despite his eagerness, he took his time. Using his whole body, Sherlock thoroughly plowed John's arse, thrusting slow and deep. The heat was exquisite, the tight walls gripping onto his cock greedily. It seemed almost a shame to speed up, but his body disagreed. His prick was making the decisions now, and it demanded faster and harder.

John didn't seem to mind in the least. He arched back, then canted his hips forward, encouraging Sherlock to take him deeper, if such a thing were even possible. He moaned, wanton and ecstatic, as Sherlock's girth lit him from the inside. Pleasure coursed through him, sizzling up his spine and tingling deep in his bollocks. The only thing that could make this better would be if Sherlock could find the right angle to—

"Fucking Christ!" John shouted and Sherlock's thrusts hit his prostate in quick succession. His hands scrambled to find purchase on anything solid. His right pressed into the headboard, his left clawed at Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh, John," Sherlock answered, his voice deep and gravelly.

Their eyes met—wild and lustful, deep and soulful. They stared at each other, the slurpy, slap of skin on skin an obscene soundtrack to the moment. This gaze, long and penetrating, exchanged something solemn and intimate—a confession and a promise. It only broke when John's eyes rolled back and he arched his neck to moan something that sounded like a _'God, yes'_. Sherlock traced his lips down the exposed column of John's throat, sucking lightly along the hollow of one clavicle and then sinking his teeth into the muscle of John's right shoulder.

Their rhythm was falling apart, their bodies sticking and sliding through patches of sweat. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips and dug his heels into his back. That single, strangled moan had turned into a chant of breathy half-words, pleas, and exclamations.

Body trembling and hips pistoning, Sherlock managed to lift himself up just enough to take John's prick in his hand and pump. John cried out again, this time a litany of curses being hollered to the ceiling, and began to thrust his hips up.

They were both utterly out of control, each chasing their own orgasm. The build was slow and tortuous—waves of pleasure crashing through their bodies. Tension coiled tighter and tighter as Sherlock's cock slid back, stretched John beautifully, then pounded in once more.

John could feel the unstoppable crest of his orgasm as Sherlock carved into him over and over. He arched, body drawn tight as a bow, and clenched his jaw against a scream. The seconds before climax stretched out for an eternity before imploding violently, filling John with unmatched bliss. Arcs of come hit his chest and still more spilled messily down Sherlock's hand. His body quaked and his anus clenched and spasmed, desperately gripping onto Sherlock's cock. Sherlock thrust hard once, twice, then went rigid. "Oh, John. Oh—oh!" he exclaimed and John could feel the heat bloom inside him as Sherlock pulsed and pulsed.

Sherlock collapsed—completely spent—and John let out a quiet _'oof'_. They laid in silence, John running his hands down Sherlock's back, and Sherlock combing his fingers through John's short hair. The post-orgasmic tranquility of the room was gradually replaced with unknowns and assumptions.

"Are you going to go?" Sherlock eventually asked, peeling off of John and rolling onto his back.

John heaved a sigh and took his time answering. It wouldn't do do go back to Mary tonight. It was late and he didn't want to wake her up only to tell her it was over. No, tomorrow would be better. "I'll stay. Less awkward that way, don't you think?"

Sherlock shrugged up at the ceiling. "I suppose. Not really my area."

John's lips quirked, hinting at a smile. "I guess not," he said. He waited a moment, then sucked in a deep breath. "I love you, Sherlock."

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, to watch as his words were processed. He was surprised by how quickly the reply came. "I know, John," Sherlock said to the ceiling, then turned to meet his eyes. He took a breath, and seemed to steady himself. "I do too. Love you," he closed his eyes and sighed, then tried again. "I love you, too."

John smiled, deeply satisfied. This was right. This was how it was meant to be.

Sherlock rolled to the edge of the bed, reached for something the clean them off, and came back with his shirt. He wiped the sticky residue from his hand, then turned to John, wiping up the drying pools of come.

"Won't that ruin your shirt?" John asked, not really protesting.

Sherlock shrugged. "I knew I should have changed it."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed this brief foray into the Sherlock fandom! Comments and critiques are always welcome, so don't be shy!<strong>


End file.
